


Fragility

by AJendryke



Category: LoveLink (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, M/M, dropping that religious and mythological lore wow, that's it that's the whole fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29594964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJendryke/pseuds/AJendryke
Summary: He was wickedly smooth, as well. His whispered poetic words of how you filled him, how his desire was an exquisite hunger that could never be quenched, had you briefly believing him to be Tantalus rather than Eros. When he ran his metal claws down your cheeks, he somehow became Cerberus instead. When he kissed you so softly—as softly as death may be—you knew all of these were false.He wore a thousand different faces when he was in the presence of you or the public eye.But you never saw his real one.
Relationships: Dr. Vile / MC
Kudos: 15





	Fragility

**Author's Note:**

> Ludia got me weak for this man I hate this.

When you were younger, you discovered the story of Eros and Psyche. 

It had been buried in a book of mythos that was shoved on the wrong bookshelf in the public library. Your parent, too preoccupied with trying to renew a library card, had failed to notice you straying from their side. When you pulled the book off of the shelf and glanced at the first few pictures, you were captivated by the beauty of Eros’ features, despite the fact that they were concealed in shadows. 

You were too young to understand the anguish that danced within his smile. 

As you grew older, the story periodically re-emerged in your life. When you were in high school, it returned in a drama class while you were discussing Eros’ role in theatre. The teacher had mentioned in an offhand point the story of Eros and Psyche as an example of the extent of lorethat Eros was built off of. It was, unabashedly, the only time you paid attention in that class. 

The next time it emerged was in a university english class. It was in an assigned reading that had been mind-numbingly dry right up to the moment that you saw the familiar picture. You had straightened in your seat and cast a glance around the room. Everyone else was so out of it at that point that nobody noticed your strange response. You glanced down at the text, and lost yourself in that image once more. 

Beautiful features, with hands clasped in prayer and eyes cast to the skies, hidden in the shadows to conceal their anguish. When you read the story again, the reason for Eros’ dismay became clear. 

The source of it all was a betrayal of trust at the hands of someone he loved. Psyche’s decision to look upon his face when he had asked—no, _begged_ —for her not to created scars that ran far deeper than surface level. Of course, the story ended with Psyche and Eros renewing their affections for one another, but only after Psyche had worked herself to the bone under the oppressive hand of the rest of the pantheon. 

You always found it ridiculous that she got such a violent punishment when it was her sister's fault to begin with. 

After that university class, the story had faded from your mind as the pressures of life reared their head. You had graduated, found yourself a job, and delved headfirst into the career-driven lifestyle of a young adult in a metropolis. You were confident, you were happy, and you were ready for what the future held. That is, until you learned what exactly that _was._

**Relationships**. 

Everyone around you talked about them, everyone around you wanted them, and everyone around you pressured you about them until you finally relented and promised to start looking. 

In all fairness, you didn’t have high hopes when you downloaded LoveLink. The app itself was buggy, with a “VIP” program that seemed ridiculously overpriced to just let you see who likes you—after all, Hinge does that for free. But your friends' rave-reviews of love and remorse were good-enough selling points that you decided to give it a shot. 

You suppose that’s what you get for being a romantic at heart. 

* * *

You were going to delete the app when you saw him. 

Your finger was quite _literally_ going towards the home button after you clicked ‘X’ on the profile of a man who looked like every other stuck-up billionaire you’ve seen. You only barely evaded missing your chance via throwing your phone on the desk. 

Because suddenly, you were back. You were in that library, you were in that drama class, you were looking at that _university text._ All of those moments collided into one cataclysmic event that practically rocked you to your foundation. 

You remember holding your breath as you leaned closer to the screen, drinking in as much of his appearance as you could. His hands were pressed together in front of his face in a prayer-like gesture, although prayer seemed like the last thing he’d ever do. There was a slight-smile that danced across his lips as well, filled with both promises and damnations at once. 

However, the thing that caught your attention the most was what ran down his cheeks—scars, three light pink vertical lines, like someone had traced their nails all the way down to his throat. You remember biting your lip as your thumb hovered over his picture. 

You had already come across a man who claimed to be Cupid on this app, but you were convinced that he was an imposter compared to the man you were looking at now. 

Beautiful features, hidden in the shadows to conceal their anguish. 

Without another thought, you swiped right. 

* * *

The events that followed in the aftermath of your matching were calamitous, to say the least. You once believed yourself to be a very law-abiding, and frankly boring, individual. Somehow Vile had caused you to throw this to the wind and embrace a side of yourself that sought to see just how _far_ you can go. You stole a glass eggplant, you created international panic on a space station, you created a glass line in the Gobi Desert. You did a thousand things you never thought you would—and he encouraged them all. 

He was wickedly smooth, as well. His whispered poetic words of how you filled him, how his desire was an exquisite hunger that could never be quenched, had you briefly believing him to be Tantalus rather than Eros. When he ran his metal claws down your cheeks, he somehow became Cerberus instead. When he kissed you so softly—as softly as death may be—you knew all of these were false.

He wore a thousand different faces when he was in the presence of you or the public eye. 

But you never saw his real one. 

Although he would dance out of your reach with a wicked grin, you weren’t blind to the flash of uncertainty that would cloud his gaze. He said he trusted you, but then a moment later would accuse you of an act you never did. When you told him about F, about the bug on The Albatross, he nearly destroyed the entire LoveLink system in his despair. He ran hot and cold at the same time and always left you drowning in his wake. 

Your friends were no better.

You reached out to them with your miseries. It wasn’t selfish for you to wish to see the face of the man who kissed you, who held you close, who murmured such sweet affections in your ear. They agreed with you. 

_You should just turn a light on his face._

_You should ask him why he doesn’t trust you._

_He’s hiding something. You’re probably not even the only one._

_He’s been lying to you this entire time._

Their words danced across your mind, and although you never acted on them directly, they still nestled and bloomed into weeds of doubt which twisted through your thoughts until they were nothing more than utterly raw _despair._

You didn’t know what to do. 

* * *

He sleeps beside you, blissfully unaware. 

It’s taken a while for him to feel comfortable enough to stay for the night. You never pressure him or beg him to stay by your side. The best course of action for someone as anxious as him is to simply let him set his own pace. Fortunately for you, your patience has finally come to fruition. 

So why did you sit with a lump of guilt in your gut? 

Your gaze is drawn from the bedroom wall towards his body; the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath, the way he occasionally shifts in his slumber, the soft sounds he makes that are indicative of dreams. You’ve been sitting up ever since he fell asleep. 

Your fingers twitch across the blankets. Sweat is beginning to build up on your palms as you cast a glance towards the window, where a sliver of moonlight is breaking through the curtains. 

He had asked you earlier that night, when his lips had burned marks across your throat, to turn off the lights and close the curtains. 

You had obliged. 

A brief flash from your phone jerks your attention away. The message on the screen is brief, but the words still cut to the point. 

_Are you going to do it?_

The lump in your stomach grows until it reaches your throat, limiting your breathing and forcing you to sit up straighter. You had texted your friend as soon as Vile made it clear he was spending the night, doing it only when he stepped outside. Her response had been swift in telling you that if there was a time to do it, to see his face, it would be tonight. You hadn’t responded to her. Vile had come back inside and resumed your discussion about his latest robotics experiment—oblivious that the person he was amicably chatting with was plotting to become a Judas later that night. 

Which brings you back to the present. 

You push back the covers and get unsteadily to your feet, creeping around the perimeter of the bed. Vile remains perfectly still in his sleep; even the slight movements of his breathing seem to have lessened. You come to a stop directly in front of him. His face remains clouded with the shadows of your room, darkened further by how close you stand. Your hand stretches out and lightly brushes across the switch on the bedside lamp. 

You take a deep breath, 

_And pause._

Your fingers continue to trace the switch as you look down at your sleeping lovers form. His trust issues are not unknown to you; they run so deeply that he doesn’t even trust himself at times, a fact he’s admitted himself. Him being here is significant not only because it shows that he _does_ trust you, but it also shows that he’s gradually trying to get over what happened to him to create such a fractured state. 

You never ask about his past. You hope in time that he’ll reveal that part of himself to you on his own terms. 

This’ll never happen if you turn on this light. 

Another deep breath and your hands drop back to your side. You turn and reflexively yank the curtains tighter, cutting off any stray moonlight from reaching into the room. Then you creep around the perimeter of the bed once more until you crawl back onto your side. You pull the covers tight and slide closer to Vile, draping one arm over his body to press your face against his shoulder. 

You're about to drift asleep when you feel his fingers interlace with your own. The gesture, although usually comforting, causes your breath to catch and your eyes to snap open once more. A sense of dread fills your stomach. 

Because he’s _awake._

_He’s been awake the entire time._

You should’ve realized this when the pace of his breathing changed and he stopped making the soft noises of dreams. You should’ve felt the pressure of his gaze on your body while your fingers traced the outline of that switch. You _certainly_ should’ve felt them on your back when you yanked those curtains shut. 

He gives a small sigh as he squeezes your hand. 

_“Thank you.”_

A simple phrase, but it makes you exhale and press closer against his body. In the silence of the room, the weight of your decision feels like the entire world on your shoulders. 

Tonight, you’ve learned what Psyche and Eros is truly about—not of a lesson of love, as many would believe, but of the fragility of trust, and how a single action can bring it to an end.


End file.
